


Small Affairs

by teyla



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Angst, Crime, Drama, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-21
Updated: 2008-04-21
Packaged: 2017-10-02 18:37:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teyla/pseuds/teyla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When CID fails to properly investigate a gay bashing, Sam tries to find the killer on his own. His inquiries uncover other truths, as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Affairs

**Author's Note:**

> I should mention that this story contains hate crimes and angry, non-con-ish sex (because lbr that's the kind of sex Gene and Sam would have), so if these things bother you, you should probably skip this fic.
> 
> **Beta**: Euclase

It was a terrible mess.

Sam had seen a lot of gruesome things during his career with the Greater Manchester Police, but the crime scene that presented itself to him in a shadowy side alley just off Dutchmore Street on a moist November morning in 1973 still gave his stomach quite a turn.

Maybe it was the anger that was making such an impression, the blind hate that spoke from the deep gashes and stab wounds all over the victim's body. Or maybe it was the splintered broomstick that stuck up in the air like a grotesque sign post from the bloody, torn mess that had formerly been the victim's anus.

"Bloody hell." Sam turned his head to see Ray eyeing the crime scene with poorly concealed disgust. "Someone was carrying a grudge."

Sam refrained from commenting, waiting for the dry remark from Gene that would be sure to follow. But the Guv was just standing there with his arms crossed and his lips pursed, frowning down at the body.

After a moment, when even Ray seemed to have registered the uncharacteristic silence, Sam took a deep breath.

"Right," he said and stepped closer to the scene. "White male in his thirties. Forensics would have to confirm, but from the way the blood is spattered I'd say he was attacked right here -"

"'Course he was attacked here."

Sam looked around at Gene, who hadn't moved any closer, but was now squinting at Sam through narrowed eyes.

"He probably walked out of the pub right into the killer's arms. Like picking apples off a tree."

Sam crossed his arms, imitating the Guv's stance. "Are you suggesting the killer knew who he was?"

Gene snorted and slipped his hands into his coat pockets. "Well, the killer definitely knew _what_ he was." Sam didn't catch on immediately, and when he finally did, the Guv had already turned to Ray. "Get this mess cleaned up. Let forensics have a look, but I want this gone as quickly as possible, understood?"

"Yes, Guv."

"Now, wait a minute." Sam held up a hand that went ignored by Carling and got him a glare from Gene. He frowned and took a step closer to prevent the small crowd of onlookers that had gathered around the crime scene overhearing his next words. "I admit, it does look a lot like a gay bashing, but we still need a full forensic sweep-"

"Oh, shut yer trap, will ya." Gene was squinting up at the sky, and it almost seemed as if he were pondering the weather. "Doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out what happened. The victim left the pub, the killer grabbed him, dragged him back here, finished him off, show's over. No need for gay boy science here." Gene paused. "No pun intended."

Sam peered down the street at the pub in front of which Gene had parked the Cortina. From where he was standing, he couldn't make out the name on the sign above the door, and neither could he see anything out of the ordinary. It was a boozer like a dozen others in this district. "What makes you think he came from the pub?"

"Somebody was hit with the stupid stick this morning." Gene turned his head to narrow his eyes at Sam. When Sam only responded by raising a questioning eyebrow, the Guv huffed and looked away again. "It's _The Oak_. A poof bar."

"A poof-" Sam broke off and looked down the street towards the pub again. "You mean, like a gay bar? Here, in 1973?"

"Don't sound so bloody surprised. From what you keep telling me about the place, Hyde must be full of 'em."

Sam crossed his arms again. "I suppose it is," he said. "Compared to here."

"I'll be taking that as a compliment then." Without giving Sam a chance to answer, Gene moved towards Ray, who was talking to a PC. Sam briefly considered calling him back, but instead resigned himself to damage control and went to talk to the head of the forensics team.

* * *

By five that afternoon, Sam's resignation had turned into major frustration. After witnessing the sloppiest forensic sweep he'd ever seen, he'd gone back to the station, where the Guv's briefing had consisted of helping himself to a double whisky and telling everybody to go back to their usual business, and maybe keep an eye out for queer haters who roamed the streets armed with broomsticks. The autopsy report had told Sam exactly nothing--_victim sustained extensive injuries and died of blood loss, estimated time of death something between ten p.m. and seven a.m._\--and all forensics had turned up was a white shirt button that they had found near the crime scene.

Sam had dryly suggested they simply arrest any man with a missing shirt button, since there were sure to be no more than ten thousand of those in all of Manchester. The Guv hadn't found the idea funny.

It was positively appalling how blatantly the whole station was ignoring the fact that a vicious crime had been committed. Sam hadn't expected much from Ray, and knew that both Chris and Annie were in no position to speak up, but he'd thought that despite all his homophobic slurs, Gene would be better than this.

Apparently, he'd been wrong.

At five-thirty, when Ray got up to go home, which caused almost every other officer to get up and file out of the station, chatting cheerfully like they would any other day, Sam decided he'd had enough. He got up and pushed into the Guv's office without so much as a knock to find Gene hunched over some paperwork. "What the bloody hell's going on?"

Gene looked up, the expression on his face anything but welcoming. "What d'you want?"

"What do I -" Sam broke off and took a deep breath. "I want this crime to be investigated. Properly and to the best of this department's abilities. That's what I want."

Gene answered Sam's stare with a shrug. "Well, Sammy-boy, you can't always get what you want. Close the door on yer way out, will ya."

It took all of Sam's self-control not to go for his DCI's throat. Instead, he slammed his palms down on the desk and leaned in. "A man was murdered, Guv. He was beaten and stabbed, and a stick was rammed up his arse so far it tore his insides apart. He was dumped in that side alley like a piece of garbage, and you're telling me that this unit won't do everything in its power to find the person who did this just because he was gay?"

Gene stared at him silently for a moment, then he pushed his chair back and got to his feet. Sam straightened up as well, ready to defend himself, but Gene only slid his hands in his pockets and narrowed his eyes at him.

"Let me get something straight here. I've told you this before, but apparently it hasn't quite got through. I don't make the rules. I just live by them. And one of the rules here in A-Division is that we don't waste precious police time on a case that we know will never go to court."

For a moment, all Sam could do was stare.

"Please tell me that's a joke."

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

Sam shook his head. "This is just unbelievable. You don't actually expect me to go along with that, do you?"

Gene leaned forward. "Oh yes, Tyler, I do. You keep your hands off this case, or I will personally see to it that you'll end up with your own broomstick up your arse."

"You know, _Guv_," Sam said, his voice tense with anger, "here's something I've told _you_ before that doesn't seem to have got through. You don't scare me. And you bloody well won't keep me from finding the sick bastard who did this."

With that, Sam turned and headed out of the office. He ignored the Guv's commands to come back here _right now_, grabbed his jacket off the back of his desk chair and was out the door before his anger would make him turn on his DCI after all.

* * *

The cool November evening helped him calm down. Sam hadn't really paid attention to where he was going--it had been the choice of either walking or stopping to punch a wall--but once he'd regained his composure, he realized that he'd ended up two blocks away from Dutchmore Street.

Figured. His subconscious had never been big on subtlety.

* * *

_The Oak _really wasn't anything remarkable. It was a clone of any other pub in the city, complete with the row of tabs and the arrangement of hard liquor bottles on the shelves behind the bar. Even the fact that the clientele was exclusively male didn't distinguish it from other pubs; there was no barmaid, but then, Nelson worked alone, too.

The only difference that might have caught an attentive observer's eye was that none of the patrons were touching each other. It took Sam a while to notice it. In the _Railway Arms_, men sat close to each other, patting each other on the back or putting their arms around each others' shoulders. Here, it was just the opposite.

Sam positioned himself at the far end of the bar, simply observing for now, getting a feel for the place. He had to give it to them--these men were good. He'd been to his fair share of gay establishments in his own time, and the term _gaydar_ didn't only tell him something, but he'd even been told that he had a keen one. Still, if Gene hadn't told him that this was the local gay venue, he wasn't sure he would have noticed anything.

"New here, are ya."

Sam looked around to see the barman, a tall guy with broad shoulders and a muscular build, leaning on his elbows and peering at him sideways through narrowed eyes.

"Yeah. First time in here."

The barman nodded and let his eyes wander over the room. "New in town, too?"

Sam hesitated. "Sort of."

The barman turned his head and for the first time looked straight at him. "Nice town, Manchester. Safe. Police do a good job of keeping the streets clean."

Sam heard the man's tone and knew he was being tested. He raised an eyebrow. "Do they."

The barman gave him a small smile. "I'm Dorian."

Sam nodded. "Name's Sam."

"Pleasure. What're you having?"

"Pint of bitter."

Dorian moved away to get Sam's drink, and as Sam directed his attention back to the small crowd of patrons, he felt the atmosphere in the room change and a tension he hadn't noticed before starting to fade. He allowed himself a small smile.

Over the course of the evening, Sam learned to appreciate the low profile seventies approach to gay flirting. He barely had to ward off any advances, and the few guys who did try left off as soon as Sam indicated he wasn't interested. About two hours after he had entered the pub, Sam got involved in a conversation with a tall skinny bloke about a promising newcomer band with the extravagant name of _Queen_. Around nine, Dorian once more leaned against the counter next to Sam and tried to quiz him some more about himself, but when all he got were evasive answers, he quickly changed the topic to football.

Sam didn't consciously realize it, but in _The Oak_, for the first time since he'd ended up in 1973 he felt completely at ease with the company he was in. When closing time rolled around, he was surprised to realize that he'd been there for over four hours. He watched the patrons filing out one by one, until finally, the only ones left were himself, Dorian, and a guy in a cowboy hat snoring at a table on the other side of the room.

"Time to call it a night, pal," Dorian said.

Sam nodded but didn't get up; he wasn't quite ready to leave yet. When he'd come here, he'd felt as clueless as a PC fresh from the academy about the best way to conduct a discreet inquiry in the Manchester gay scene. Keeping a low profile and playing the observer had seemed like a good idea, but if he wanted results, he'd have to speak up eventually.

Sam got to his feet and walked over to where Dorian was putting chairs up on tables.

"Excuse me."

"Yes?"

Sam pulled out his ID and held it out for Dorian to see. "I'm DI Sam Tyler, Manchester CID."

Dorian paused; then he slowly put down the chair he'd been holding and straightened up. "Oh," he said. "Are you now."

"Look, I don't want to cause any trouble for you. I just came here because I have a few questions." The barman crossed his arms over his broad chest but stayed silent. Sam lowered his voice. "About the murder that was committed last night just down the street from this pub."

Dorian shook his head. "You can't seriously believe any of us had anything to do with that," he said as he put another chair on a table.

Sam shook his head and slipped his hands in his jacket pockets. "No, I don't. But I thought you might know the victim. He didn't have an ID on him."

Dorian picked up a bunch of empty beer glasses and carried them back to the bar. Sam followed him. "Maybe you even noticed something unusual last night. Strangers hanging around outside in the street. Something like that."

Dorian went behind the counter to put the glasses away. Then he turned around and put his palms flat on the bar, leaning on them and looking straight at Sam. "His name was Larry Workman. The bloke who was killed. He came here quite often."

"Do you know where he lived?"

Dorian shook his head. "Somewhere in the area, I suppose. I know he worked for the textile factory."

Sam nodded. "Thank you. That should help us find his next of kin."

Dorian grunted noncommittally. "I didn't see anything. Wasn't a busy night. Larry came in at half seven, as usual, and he left around ten. Hour later I closed up."

"Did anyone leave with him?" Sam wished for his notebook, but he didn't want to risk Dorian clamming up.

Dorian shook his head. "I don't think so. Gene left only a couple minutes after him, though."

"Gene?"

"Yup. Don't know his last name. He's not here often. Nice guy, though. Except that he always brings his own booze."

Sam paused at that, but then smiled inwardly at his own silliness. What was he thinking? This was the _Guv_. "Is there any way I can find Gene? Can you tell me what he looks like?"

Dorian shrugged. "Really don't know much about him. As I said, he doesn't come here often. Tall bloke, blondish, sort of heavy. Drinks too much scotch for his own good. Always wears this brown coat. Wool or something."

All Sam could do was stare at Dorian. After a moment he noticed Dorian's expression turn wary, but he still couldn't find his voice to say anything.

"Something the matter?"

"Ah-" Sam blinked rapidly a couple of times and licked his lips. "Ah, no, nothing, everything's fine. I- uh- thank you for your help."

Dorian frowned at him for another moment, then he nodded. "Don't mention it."

"Uh, no, I won't. Um, mention it, I mean. Thank you again. I- I should get going."

Before Dorian could reply, Sam gave him a nervous smile and quickly left the pub.

* * *

This time, the cold night air didn't help to clear his head, and when Sam arrived at his flat, his thoughts were still chasing their own tails.

He dropped his keys and jacket on the bed and went to pour himself a drink.

It couldn't be. Gene Hunt wasn't gay. Gene Hunt was an openly homophobic bastard. If Sam so much as ever hinted at the opposite, Gene would throw him up against a wall.

In a totally manly way, of course.

Sam picked up the bottle and sat down at his desk, pouring himself another shot. Maybe he shouldn't be thinking about this scenario right now. Maybe he shouldn't be thinking about this at all. It wasn't productive, and it sure as hell wasn't true. Gene Hunt was straight. As straight as--well, as straight as something very straight.

Not that Sam actually cared whether his DCI fancied men or women. It wasn't any of his business. That was how he'd handled it back in Hyde- back in his former life. His team had naturally assumed their boss was straight, and he'd never given them reason to think otherwise, keeping his work separate from his private life. Before Maya, that was, but with her, he hadn't seen a problem in his team knowing about her. Anything he might have been doing on his time off was his business and his alone. That had been his policy, and it had applied to him as well as to any of his co-workers. No reason he should change it only because he was here now.

Except that if Gene had really been in that pub that night, and if he'd really left mere minutes after Larry Workman, then he could be a key witness to solving this crime. That was what Sam should be thinking about--not whether or not Gene Hunt preferred cock, but whether or not he might have withheld vital information in a murder investigation.

Sam exhaled and ran his hands over his face. He had to admit that it would make sense. Disregarding the fact that Gene could in no possible way be gay, it would explain a lot if he were. If the CID had conducted a proper investigation into the murder, then the first thing they would have done was question the barman of _The Oak_. Which would have led them to Gene. Which would have revealed to the whole department that the Guv had a habit of hanging out in gay bars. The only thing that might have ruined his career more efficiently would have been for him to show up in drag and doing a strip show in the station.

The mental image made the corners of Sam's mouth twitch; he quickly downed his drink.

Maybe this was another Billy Kemble. Maybe Gene was setting him up again. Provoking him to investigate on his own, so he would figure out what was going on by himself. Gene would know it would work; he knew how to play him. It would also mean, though, that Gene actually trusted Sam enough to let him find out about something that could destroy Gene in the blink of an eye.

Sam put down his glass. "Fuck this."

He got up and shrugged into his jacket. A quick glance at his watch made him hesitate, but only briefly. He couldn't postpone this. He needed to know. And it wasn't like Gene ever had any qualms about waking Sam in the middle of the night.

* * *

He didn't remember Gene's missus until his finger was already hovering over the bell. He pulled back, weighing his options. If he rang the bell, they'd both wake up, and there was bound to be confusion, which, considering the issue Sam was planning to address, wouldn't be productive.

Sam looked around and smiled as his eyes fell on the phone box that stood at the corner of the street.

Without automatic dialling, Sam had become quite adept at memorizing phone numbers. He dialled and waited. After the fifth ring, he heard somebody pick up.

"This had better be good." Gene's voice was slurred with sleep, and his tone was anything but friendly. Sam couldn't ward off a small surge of satisfaction at being the one doing the waking up for a change.

"Guv, I need to talk to you."

"Tyler -" There was a pause and a grunt. It sounded like Gene was sitting up. "Tyler, it's the middle of the ruddy night."

"I know. I need to talk to you, though. About the Dutchmore Street murder."

"Oh Christ. I thought I'd told you to leave this one alone!"

"Well, and I told you I wouldn't. So what's it gonna be, are you coming outside or d'you want me to take this to the Super?"

There was a stretch of silence on the other end of the line. "Where are ya?"

"I'm calling from the phone box right across from your house."

"Alright." Sam heard Gene exhale heavily. "Give me a minute, I'll let you in."

Sam hadn't been waiting on the porch long before the door opened and a rather dishevelled and definitely not pleased Gene Hunt motioned for him to enter. Sam stepped over the threshold and quietly closed the door behind him. "What about -"

"She's not home." Gene was making no effort to keep his voice down, shuffling toward the kitchen.

"Oh." That made things a lot easier.

Sam followed Gene into the small kitchen that, with its tiled floor and quirky cupboard door handles, looked more like something out of the fifties than the seventies. Gene held a half-filled bottle of scotch out to him, and as Sam raised a declining hand, he grunted and poured himself a shot before he turned around and leaned back against the counter. "So, what's this highly important thing you need to talk to me about?"

Sam opened his mouth, but then closed it again. He realized he hadn't thought this through properly. It had all seemed very simple on the way here, but now that he was facing Gene, he wasn't sure he could go through with it.

He took a deep breath. "I spoke to the bartender in the _Oak_."

Gene regarded him with a level gaze. "Did you now. And what, pray tell, did the bartender of the _Oak_ say?"

"Well, for one thing, I found out the victim's name and place of employment."

Gene raised his eyebrows and took a swig from his glass. "They actually talked to you in there, eh?" He looked Sam up and down. "Well, I suppose they would."

Sam shook his head in frustration and paced a couple of steps before the small kitchen table stopped him. He gripped the backrest of a chair with both hands and leaned on it, then looked up at Gene. "The bartender told me that the victim, Larry Workman, left the pub at ten. He was alone; but only a few minutes later, another patron left the establishment."

Gene didn't break eye-contact. Sam ran his tongue over his lips. "The bartender's description matched yours to the letter, Guv."

For a couple of moments, neither of them moved. Then Gene put his glass down and made as if to leave, but when he reached the door, he stopped and turned around. Sam could see his face was a mask of barely controlled anger. "I told you to leave this one alone, Tyler!"

Sam was careful to keep his voice level when he answered. "I know. I told you I wouldn't."

For a moment, Sam thought that Gene would attack him--not in his usual bullying way, but actually physically harm him--and his shoulders tensed. But then Gene only turned his eyes away and crossed his arms. "Alright," he said. "What d'you want?"

Sam frowned. "What?"

"What d'you want, Tyler? What is it that I'll hafta do for you to keep quiet about this?"

For a moment, Sam was too surprised to speak at all.

"Jesus Christ, Guv," he finally managed. "I'm not trying to _blackmail_ you."

"Then why'd you come here?"

Sam only stared at him. "This is a murder investigation! Larry Workman left the pub at ten p.m. and was killed probably not long after that in close vicinity to the pub, which you left around that exact time. Like it or not, you're a key witness! We need to go down to the station, and you'll have to make a formal statement-"

Since it happened on such a frequent basis, Sam shouldn't have been surprised at Gene's quick, cat-like moves. Still, when he suddenly found himself pinned to the wall with Gene's hands at his throat, he wasn't quite sure how he'd got there.

"This line of investigation will _not_ be pursued any further," Gene snarled. "I've told you once, and now I'm telling you again, you will let this one pass. No gay boy science, no airy-fairy Hyde methodology, no scribbling in little notebooks, nothing. You will let it go."

Sam twisted and squirmed, and finally succeeded at working his hands into a position of leverage. With some effort, he managed to push Gene away. "How can you even say that?" he asked once he was free. "What sort of fucked up sense of morality does it take to queer bash yourself?"

Gene moved closer again, and Sam raised his hands to ward him off, but the Guv only stabbed an outstretched index finger at him. "You shut the bloody fuck up about this, you hear me? You don't know _shit_ about this. So don't give me your holier-than-thou act on this one, or I swear, I will break your pretty little face."

Sam gritted his teeth. "What do you even know about me? How come you _know_ that I don't know what I'm talking about?"

The moment he'd said it, he regretted the words. Judging from the expression on his face, there was no chance Gene had misunderstood him. His eyes had widened; and he'd taken a step backwards.

"Bloody hell, Tyler. You're just full of surprises, aren't ya."

Sam sighed and ran both hands over his face. "It doesn't matter. It has nothing to do with this."

"I agree." Gene went over to the kitchen counter and picked up his glass. "I don't give a shit whether you take it up the arse or not. This investigation is still closed."

"For God's sake, Guv!" Sam couldn't keep his voice down anymore. "There's some sick bastard out there who goes around killing men just because they prefer dick over pussy. Personally, I'd say that's reason to be concerned for anyone, but how can you not care when you're gay yourself? You know -"

"Don't you talk to me about what I know." Gene had turned around again, fixing Sam with a hard stare. "I'll tell you what I know. I know that when I look at a pair of tits, all I see is two lumps with nipples, but when I see you parading around the station, I can barely keep my load in my pants. I also know that until a few years ago, they could bang you up for sucking dick, and all the '67 act did was make it a little harder for them. If the Chief Constable had his way, he'd have any queer he comes across executed." Gene paused and ran his tongue over his lips. "I like Manchester, Tyler. It's my home. And I bloody well won't risk everything I have only to catch a scumbag who'll get off with a twopence fine and a pat on the back."

Sam stared at Gene for a moment. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then shook his head and crossed his arms. "I don't know what you're playing at, _Hunt_. I don't care about your excuses, and if you're coming on to me to distract me, it's not working. I am going to investigate this murder, and if I have to take it higher up to make you cooperate, I will. I'm not going to-"

This time, he did see it coming, but he couldn't stop it. Gene was pressing against him with all his weight, immobilizing him, his face only inches from Sam's own.

"Shut. The fuck. Up. About this." He tightened his fists around Sam's collar, his knuckles pressing against Sam's throat, making it difficult to breathe.

"I won't ever hear another word about this from you. The case is closed. Understood?"

Sam tried to struggle, but Gene was holding him in an iron grip. He gasped for air. "No. I won't let you bully me into -"

Suddenly, Gene grabbed his head and turned it around. Sam could feel a pair of lips crash against his own, and then he almost choked as a tongue worked its way into his mouth.

It was no kiss; it wasn't even meant to be one. It was an attack. Sam managed to get one arm free and pushed Gene away with all his might. Gene stumbled backwards, and Sam almost lost his balance. He caught himself, holding onto the wall. "What the _fuck_ are you doing?"

Gene was breathing heavily as well. "I'm shutting you up, you little bastard prick."

Sam could see a burning rage blazing in Gene's eyes, and felt a rush of the same emotion running through himself. He was about to straighten up and launch himself on the other man, but Gene was faster. Sam was thrown backwards, and then Gene grabbed his wrists, holding them in a firm, painful grip against the wall above his head, and pressed himself up against Sam, shoving his hips forward against Sam's own.

"Don't play shy," Gene panted, his breath hot on Sam's face. "Little gay-boy sluts like you like it rough, don't they."

Sam felt himself grow hard. This was wrong--so wrong on so many levels--but it was also exhilarating, being here pinned against the wall unable to move with Gene's hard-on pressing against his groin. He struggled and twisted and tried to break free, but all it achieved was that Gene gripped his arms even tighter and moved in even closer, for a moment pressing all air out of Sam's lungs and sending a surge through his body.

"Stop this, Gene." Sam's voice was tense, out of breath. "Stop this right now, or I'll -"

Gene thrust his hips forward, and Sam gasped as Gene's cock was pressed against his own through the fabric of their clothing. Coherent thought went cloudy, and as Gene once more caught his mouth with his own, Sam reciprocated on instinct.

The kiss was rough, a fight for dominance, and Gene was winning, biting Sam's lips and tongue and thrusting his hips against him again and again. He changed his grip on Sam's wrists, putting his left forearm across them, and used the free hand to undo their trousers. Sam felt his pants being torn away, his cock being freed, and then Gene wrapped his hand around both their erections and began stroking them hard and fast.

The friction was intense. Gene continued to grind his lips against Sam's, barely allowing him enough air to breathe, and things began to blur before Sam's eyes. He felt like the tension would tear him apart any second now, and still the heat kept building and building. When it reached the inevitable climax, Sam cried a sound- and breathless cry into Gene's mouth, and for a moment, the world before his eyes went black.

He came back to find himself slumped against Gene, the come that had spilled all over his crotch a wet warmth that was cooling rapidly. He gasped for air, filling his lungs with precious oxygen, and felt Gene give him a small shake.

"Sam. Sam, talk to me."

Disgust rolled through Sam, clenching in his stomach, and he pushed Gene away. "Get off me, you bastard!"

Speaking hurt his throat, and he coughed, reaching out quickly to steady himself against the wall. Gene had backed off and was standing a few feet away, the expression on his face unreadable. They held each other's eyes for a moment before Gene looked down and buttoned up his trousers. "I'm sorry, Tyler," he said, and his voice sounded as if he might even have meant it. "You didn't really give me a choice here."

Sam's breathing was calming down, and he slumped back against the wall. "What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean?"

Gene looked up sharply. "Don't pretend you didn't like it."

Sam stared at the other man. "You're sick," he said. "You're sick, Gene, and you're twisted, and you're wrong, and I don't know what the hell is going on in your head, but if you ever so much as touch me again, I'll make you regret it."

Gene's face hardened. "Get out, Sam," he said. "Piss off. And don't you _ever_ talk about this, to me or anyone else."

Sam pressed his lips together and straightened up. "This isn't over yet."

Without waiting for an answer, he brushed past the other man and left.

* * *

For the second time that night, Sam unlocked the door to his flat with hands that weren't quite steady. It was late, all was silent, and the clatter of his keys sounded overly loud in the corridor. His flat wasn't much better, and Sam crossed the room to turn on the TV. Test Card Girl flickered into appearance, smiling her indifferent smile at him.

Sam dropped to his knees in front of the set and gripped its edges. "Alright," he hissed, "alright, you tell me what I'm doing wrong. 1973, right? So where are the love-ins that I'm missing? Did they all get cancelled for Manchester area? How come that everywhere I look--shit."

He dropped his arms at his side and sighed, then shifted until he was sitting on the floor with his back against the bed. He rested his eyes on the blue flickering image of the test card.

"I really am losing it, aren't I?"

Test Card Girl only smiled, and the fact that Sam wished that she wouldn't, wished she'd come out of the telly just so he'd have _someone_ to talk to didn't exactly make him feel saner.

Didn't matter. His sanity was a lost cause, anyway. He'd been hit by a car and had woken up in an imaginary world where he not only talked to imaginary people, but even cared about them and had feelings for them. Let them assault him without raising as much as a finger just because he wanted to be touched so badly that it didn't matter how or who-

But that was a lie, wasn't it. It did matter who. If it had been anyone else, he wouldn't have let it happened. But it had been Gene, Gene Hunt the obnoxious bastard, who, for reasons Sam couldn't begin to understand, held a fascination for him that was mesmerizing. It had been there from the first moment they'd met, but over the years as a police officer with a private life that wouldn't necessarily meet everybody's definition of proper, Sam had got quite skilled at repressing any attraction that he deemed unproductive, to the point that he wasn't even consciously aware of it anymore.

Gene had been easy. DCI Hunt, offensive, homophobic and sexist, would never in a million years consider anything more than friendship with his DI, if that. Ignoring the attraction had happened almost automatically.

Except that now, it turned out that offensive, homophobic and sexist DCI Hunt was a façade for still-as-offensive-but-gay Gene Hunt. Sam hadn't expected this; his defences had been down, and now he couldn't help but think about Gene's lips on his, Gene's tongue forcing its way into his mouth and a rough, callused hand stroking him, fast, hard-

Sam made a noise deep at the back of his throat and scrambled to his feet. The bottle of scotch was still standing on his desk, and he poured himself a generous shot.

_I'm not thinking about this. I'm not._

He sat on the bed and drew his knees up to his chest, his eyes fixed on Test Card Girl's frozen smile.

He didn't sleep that night.

* * *

At five thirty the next afternoon, the team set off to the _Railway Arms_ as usual. The only one who took notice of Sam not joining them was Annie.

"Aren't you coming?" she asked as she passed his desk.

Sam shook his head. "I'll be heading home. I'm knackered."

Annie stopped to search his face. "You look it. Something the matter?"

"No, it's nothing. I just-" He was about to continue, but that moment, Gene walked by. He didn't spare Sam a glance, but Sam still broke off and followed Gene with his eyes as he walked out the station.

Annie hadn't missed it. "Oh, I shoulda known. What is it with you two? Always fighting."

Sam looked up at her, then sighed and rubbed his eyes. "It's complicated."

"I bet." Annie's tone wasn't exactly sympathetic. "It's not good for morale, y'know."

Sam lowered his hands. "Well, it seems to be serving quite well for your entertainment." It came out sounding more weary than sarcastic, and Annie snorted.

"I'll leave you to it then. See you t'morrow, Sam."

"See ya."

Sam felt tired enough to camp out on the couch in the locker room. The thought of waking up the next morning and having to face Hunt before breakfast, however, decided him against it, and so he gathered up his jacket and left.

The lighting in his flat was abysmal enough that the gloomy interiors never really changed despite the time of the day. Sam didn't bother with pyjamas as he stripped and crawled under the blankets.

His dreams, as usual, were of the more disturbing kind. He found himself in a dingy, dark back-alley. He couldn't see anybody else, but he knew he wasn't alone. There was a bright patch of light where the alley lead into a bigger street, and Sam began to walk towards it, quickening his steps as he went. The feeling of being observed got stronger with each step, and soon he was running. He could hear footsteps behind him, drawing nearer and nearer, and suddenly Sam realized that the light at the end of the alley wasn't coming any closer.

The surprise made him stumble, and he was grabbed from behind and yanked around. He couldn't see his attacker, there was nothing but a dark shape, but he could see what he was wielding--it was one half of a broken stick, the glow from the alley entrance catching the splintered end with a few rays of shifty light.

He struggled, but the attacker was too strong. Sam was pushed up against the wall, big hands clutching at his throat, a large, heavy body pressing against him, and then there was warm, moist breath on his throat and the sensation of teeth biting the sensitive skin on the side of his neck, and Sam realized that his attacker wasn't an attacker at all, but Gene Hunt.

Strong hands and arms were pressing him against the wall, immobilizing him, and then the attacker--Gene--moved downwards. Sam could feel warmth on his stomach, and then further down, hot air brushing over his cock before moisture enclosed it. He moaned and thrust his hips, shoving deeper inside, and he could feel a tongue, licking and sucking and teasing, and teeth grazing over his skin, sending surges through his body. He reached out and felt soft, fine hair that he could bury his fingers in and hold onto as he continued to thrust, again and again, into the hot wet space of Gene's mouth -

Sam awoke with a gasp. He was lying on his stomach, tangled in the sheets, and there was an uncomfortable wetness at this crotch. He blinked into the gloomy twilight a couple of times, then let his head drop back down and buried his face in the pillow.

Great. Just great. He'd had a wet dream and had shot his load like a fifteen year old boy. Way to go.

Rather unwillingly, he rolled over and extricated himself from the sheets that were stubbornly sticking to his sweaty skin. A quick glance at his watch told him that it was half past three in the morning. He sighed.

"Did you make a mess, Sam?"

The clear, bright little girl's voice made him jump about a mile. He turned his head to see Test Card Girl sitting on top of the TV set.

"Oh no." He quickly grabbed the screwed up blanket and pulled it over his wet crotch, then ran a hand over his face. "See, I really don't feel like talking to you right now, so would you please just leave?"

"Don't you like me anymore?" Her tone was curious. "Would you rather Gene was here?"

"No! Oh, Jesus. . ." Sam squeezed his eyes shut. "I am _not_ discussing this with you."

When he looked up again, the girl was back in the TV. He sighed with relief, then put his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands.

What was he going to do? What on Earth was he going to do?

* * *

The next couple of days didn't offer him any answers, either. The atmosphere at the station had grown even tenser, if that was possible. Gene wouldn't speak to him except to yell orders. Ray was shunning him as well. Chris and Annie seemed puzzled and nervous around both Sam and Gene. Sam himself kept his head down most of the time, partly because he was too tired and confused to have the energy to stand up for himself, but mostly because Gene kept piling file after file onto his desk as if keeping his workload high enough that he couldn't have time to think about the Dutchmore Street murder, let alone investigate it.

After about three days of this, Annie stopped at Sam's desk one evening and let her purse drop onto the desk with an audible thump. "Figure it out, Sam, will ya."

Sam looked up from the list of stolen cars he'd been going through--they were looking for a blue Chrysler, and Sam had never realized how many of those blasted things had been around in 1973--and blinked in confusion. "What?"

"Whatever it is that you did, the Guv isn't going to drop it. Go beat each other up if you have to, but work it out already."

Sam took a deep breath, then put his pen down and smiled sourly. "What makes you think it's something I did?"

"It's his station," Annie said. "That means he's always right."

Sam laughed. "Now that's a cheerful thought."

"It's how he functions." Annie picked up her purse. "About time you got used to it."

She left, and as Sam looked around, he realized the station was deserted. His eyes travelled to Gene's office. The shades were drawn, and the lights were out, and Sam frowned. He hadn't noticed Gene leaving.

After a moment, he sighed and gathered his things together. He made his way home, the conviction building in him that there simply wasn't a solution to this problem. He'd have to go to Superintendent Rathbone with this, which would ruin Gene, which would make everything he'd achieved since he'd arrived here worthless.

On a sudden impulse, he stopped and entered one of the many pubs that lined the street. He ordered a bottle of their cheapest wine to go. The barman barely looked at him as he handed it over, which was just fine with Sam. He left the pub and opened the bottle as he went, taking a swig now and again as he made his way to the dingy hole he called home.

When he got there, a good part of the wine was already gone, and Sam felt rather light-headed, but also pleasantly numb. It took him a while to find the lock with his key. Once he was inside, he slumped back against the door and raised the bottle to his lips once more--only to drop it as a sudden, gruff voice spoke up.

"Bloody hell, Tyler, it's not even after six."

Sam's eyes darted from the soggy mess on the carpet to the table where Gene Hunt was sitting regarding him with a frown. Sam blinked a couple of times, but Gene seemed to be quite real and intent on staying where he was.

Sam licked his lips. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Well, I'd thought I'd talk to you, but I get the feeling that I should make you stick your head in a bucket of cold water first." His eyes dropped to the broken bottle on the floor. "Really, Tyler, you hold your drink like a bloody girl."

"And you hold your drink like a fat ugly old straight guy." On some level Sam realized how ridiculously sulky that sounded, but he didn't care. Holding on to the wall for support, he stepped over the wine-and-glass puddle and dropped onto the bed. "Go away, Gene."

Sam heard a sigh and the scraping of a chair as Gene got up. Then he heard the sound of the tap running.

"Drink this." A glass of water was held over Sam's face, and a drop of condensation dripped onto his cheek.

Sam sniffled. "No."

"Drink it or I'll pour it over yer head."

Sam hesitated for another moment before he sat up and grabbed the glass from Gene. "What do you want?"

Gene was using a towel to clean away the worst of the broken glass. He dumped them into the bin and after a moment's consideration spread the towel over the soggy spot on the carpet.

"I'm sorry, Tyler. About, y'know. You were being such a bastard, I didn't know what else to do."

"Never make an apology unless it's followed by an insult." Sam was starting to feel less fuzzy. He'd drank the wine rather quickly, which made for a strong but rather short-lived high. The water was helping to clear his head, and so was the anger that was building in him. "If that's all you came here for, Gene, then you shouldn't have bothered."

"You're a bloody nuisance, you know that, Tyler?" He sighed. "No, actually it's not all I came here for."

Sam looked up. "You want another shag?"

He'd meant to follow this up with a derisive rejection, but as their eyes met, the words got stuck in his throat. He could see Gene's own throat working, and he swallowed hard himself, trying to block out the images that were springing to mind.

Silly. He was being silly. "Forget it," he muttered and quickly downed the rest of the water.

Gene took off his coat and put it over the backrest of the armchair before he sat down. "I know who killed Larry Workman."

Sam looked up sharply. "What?"

Gene avoided his eyes, inspecting his hands instead. "I saw him. When I left the _Oak_ that night."

"You saw-" Sam broke off and licked his lips, leaning forward. "You saw the killer? Saw him attack Larry?"

Gene looked up, and there was a rare expression of guilt in his eyes. "I didn't think he were gonna kill him. I thought he were just roughing him up a bit."

Sam kept staring for another few moments, then he shook his head. "You're unbelievable. That's- that's just fucking unbelievable." He gritted his teeth. "Was I wrong about _everything_ I ever thought about you?"

Gene narrowed his eyes. "Now, come on, Tyler, that's just not fair-"

Sam got to his feet.

"Don't you start talking to me about fair." He clenched his fists, trying to keep his trembling rage in check. "You're a fucking policeman, Gene. Your duty is to protect, and that means protecting the citizens of this town from getting beaten to death in some side alley while you walk away to save your sorry arse the trouble of-"

"He would have recognized me, Tyler." Gene's voice was calm as he cut him off. "It was a plod."

"What?" Sam's throat had gone dry.

"PC William Bryce. Permanently assigned to patrol duties after a cock-up that cost a man's life a coupla years back." Gene shifted in the armchair and looked away. "I knew he was a negligent sod. I didn't think he was a killer."

Sam ran both his hands over his face, then pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "You're saying a police officer did this."

"Looks that way."

Sam dropped back down on the bed. "Great. That's just great. One copper to kill 'em, the other one to look the other way. How efficient."

"I didn't know he was gonna kill him." Gene's voice was tense. "Believe me, if I'd known he would, I'd've killed that bastard meself. Larry was a good bloke. He didn't deserve that."

Sam shook his head. "You do know how weak an excuse that is, right?"

"Yeah." Gene's tone had gone quiet. "Yeah, I do."

"Good." Sam's anger was dissipating. He tried to hold on to it--the anger was good, the anger kept him focused--but he couldn't quite manage. "So, what's the plan then? You're gonna give him up?"

"There's no way I can do that without giving meself up as well. I won't do that. I told you, Tyler, I like Manchester."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "But this is 1973, right? Homosexuality is legal. They can't kick you out for being gay anymore."

As he looked up, he saw Gene regarding him with an expression that was almost pitiful. "I don't know where you've been, Tyler, but around here, Gay Liberation isn't too big in demand. I told you, if the Chief Constable made the law, being a queer would get you locked away for life. If I make a report about this, that's me done with."

"Alright." Sam nodded. "Okay. So I'm asking again, what _is_ the plan? Why'd you tell me all this if you're not gonna give him up?"

"Well," Gene said, and Sam perked up when he heard a devious undertone in his voice. "There's always this."

Sam stared at the object in the little plastic bag Gene was dangling between his fingers. When he realized what it was, he shook his head in frustration. "How many times, Guv. It's _illegal_."

"Yeah, but so is beating people to death with a broken stick. The question is, what's more illegal?"

* * *

"Present at interview, suspect Police Constable William E. Bryce, Detective Inspector Tyler, Detective Chief Inspector Gene Hunt. Consulted evidence: PC Bryce's personal file, PC Bryce's uniform shirt, and -"

"Get on with it, Tyler, will ya."

"- and a shirt button, light blue, found at the crime scene."

He dropped the evidence bag onto the table and turned his attention to their suspect. PC Bryce was a large man in his late forties with a big gut and a face that seemed strangely expressionless. Sam was reminded of the porcelain figurines his aunt was so fond of, and the comparison left him a little unsettled.

"Constable Bryce, can you account for your whereabouts between ten p.m. last Wednesday and seven a.m. the following morning?"

Bryce's expression didn't change. "I was at home," he said. "Asleep."

"Can anyone back this up? Do you have a wife, a roommate?"

"No."

"Were you at home the entire time?"

"Yes."

"Constable Bryce, do you know this man?" Sam held up a photo of Larry Workman.

Bryce's voice betrayed nothing. "No, never seen him."

Sam left the photo lying on the table in Bryce's direct line of sight. "Constable Bryce, I have a report from one of your neighbours here. A Ms. Melton is claiming to have heard noises in the hallway at around midnight, and I quote, _'when I took a peek through my spy hole, I saw that copper unlocking his door. He seemed to have had one too many, from the way he was tottering.'_." Sam looked up. "Constable Bryce, are you sure you were at home all night?"

Sam was pleased to see a thin line of sweat breaking out on the man's white, fleshy forehead. He was careful to keep his own face stoic, though.

"I dunno. I'd been to the pub. I did have a few drinks. Might have been that I came home a bit later than I thought."

"Which pub?" It was the first time Gene had spoken. Bryce's eyes darted over at Gene only to return to the photo on the table.

"_Cheshire Cat_," he mumbled.

Sam leaned forward. "You spent the evening at the _Cheshire Cat_," he repeated. "A pub only two streets away from Dutchmore Street. Is that right?"

At that, Bryce looked up. "Yeah, so? There were others there, too. You gonna arrest all of 'em?"

Sam ignored him, pretending to consult Bryce's personal file. "You live in West Street. Your way home would take you along Dutchmore Street, right past the crime scene." He raised his eyes at the suspect. "Isn't that so?"

Bryce shifted in his chair. "Maybe."

"So you spent Wednesday night at the _Cheshire Cat_, which closes at ten thirty. You made your way home, walking along Dutchmore Street, which would put you at the crime scene at ten forty-five at the latest. We know that the victim left the _Oak_ at around ten and was killed not long after that. Despite the fact that your flat is within twenty minutes' walking distance of the _Cheshire Cat_, we have a neighbour stating that they didn't notice you returning home until midnight. Does this sound about right to you, Constable Bryce?"

Bryce didn't say anything, only staring back at Sam with a blank expression on his face. Sam could see sweat stains spreading under the man's pits.

There was a scraping of wood on concrete, and then Gene walked around the table. He put one hand on the tabletop and one on the backrest of Bryce's chair and leaned in close. "Let's cut to the chase here, shall we? You killed him, didn't ya. You'd had a few drinks too many, and we all know how that turned out the last time. 1969, a bust down in Northenden, and if you hadn't had that whisky, your aim might have been better and PC Holman might still be alive. Now, 1973, a man gets beaten to death in a back alley, and if you'd had a few lesser drinks, maybe he'd be still alive, too?"

Bryce crossed his arms. Sam could see that he was trying not to scoot his chair away from Gene. "Holman was an accident."

"Oh, yeah, they always are, aren't they." Gene straightened up and crossed his arms, but stayed standing right next to the suspect's chair. "Fact is, Bryce, you're a nasty drunk. Last time, you were waving your gun about, and someone got killed. Now they've taken your gun away, but perhaps you found another way of relieving your temper. Say, a broken broom handle."

Sam was watching Bryce attentively, and he could see it in the PC's eyes as realization came to him that he was cornered. Sam tightened his jaw, careful not to let on that he'd seen it.

"You can't prove anything." Bryce's tone was brittle.

"Oh, but we can." Sam picked up the blue uniform shirt that was lying on the desk and unfolded it. "Constable Bryce, is this your shirt?" He turned the collar inside out and held the stitched-in letters up so Bryce would see them. "Is this your name tag?"

Bryce was silent for a moment. "I suppose."

Sam spread the shirt out on the desk. "It's freshly washed and starched, so I suppose it's been to the dry cleaners fairly recently. However, if you would take a look at this." He pointed it out.

Bryce lowered his eyes to the shirt, but he didn't say anything.

"What can you see?" Sam prompted.

Bryce pursed his lips. "There's a button missing."

"Now isn't that a surprise." Gene's faked astonishment sounded very loud in the silent room. "There's a button missing. Now guess what forensics found at the crime scene."

Three pairs of eyes wandered to the small evidence bag that was lying next to the shirt, and the item it contained: a light blue, small shirt button, an exact match of the ones on the shirt.

The silence seemed to stretch. Sam had seen this happen countless times, but it never failed to be impressive--the visible progression as the suspects worked their way through to the realization that they were done in, that there was nothing they could do to save their skin. Finally, Bryce lowered his eyes.

"'e were just a queer."

Before Sam knew it, Bryce was up against the wall, and he winced as the constable's head connected with the hard concrete.

"What did you say?" Gene's voice was still low, but this time, it was because he was speaking through clenched teeth.

Bryce squirmed and struggled, but for all his body mass, he didn't have anything on Gene's trained deathgrip. "He was just a bloody fairy! I didn't mean to kill him, it just happened! Let me go!"

"Oh, I'll let you go, don't you worry." Gene tightened his grip, and Bryce's eyes bulged. "I'll let you go to prison, you little piece of dogshite, and I'll let you rot there until the shit falls out of your arse on its own. You'll go away for a long time, and don't you think they'll let you off easy, because I'll make sure they won't. I'll make sure the full fury of the British legal system comes down on you so hard you won't even know what hit ya, you little piece of useless -"

"Guv!" Gene had started punctuating his sentences with punches to Bryce's gut, and as Sam could see the constable turn an unhealthy shade of blue, he quickly got to his feet. "Gene, that's enough."

"Oh, I don't think so." Gene pushed Bryce against the wall once more and punched him square in the face. "I think our fine British police officer here needs another lesson in -"

"Gene, stop it!" Sam stepped in front of him and grabbed Gene's balled fist that he'd been pulling back to hit Bryce yet again. "Stop it. It's enough."

After a few seconds, Gene seemed to come to his senses, and he took a deep breath and stepped back. Their eyes met, and Sam held his Guv's gaze for a few moments until he was sure Gene wouldn't go for Bryce again. Then he turned around.

"Get up."

Bryce had slid down the wall to the floor and was cowering down there, holding his now-bleeding nose. He whimpered, and Sam had to clench his jaw to keep himself from giving the man a good kick himself. "I said, _get up_."

Slowly, Bryce clambered to his feet. As soon as he was more or less standing, Sam grabbed him by the arms and spun him around, shoving him against the wall and snapping a pair of cuffs around his wrists. "Police Constable Bryce, you are being charged with the murder on Larry Workman. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence -"

"That's not how it goes."

Sam pushed, and Bryce whimpered again as his sore face was shoved against the wall. "Shut up, you useless bastard. You're nicked."

* * *

"I didn't think he'd fall for it so easily."

They were in Gene's office. It was getting late, and the station was already on skeleton crew for the night. Sam was sitting on the edge of Gene's desk and sipping his scotch while waiting for Gene to finish up the paperwork.

"Why not? Blue button, white button, who cares? He did it, that's what matters."

"In this case, I'll have to agree with ya." Sam took another sip. "That, and that he gave us a confession."

"On a silver platter. With regards from the house."

"Without you having to beat the daylights outta him." Sam smirked. "Impressive, such an unforced confession, isn't it?"

Gene grunted. "Ye always have to find something to nag about, Dorothy, don't ya."

Sam's grin broadened. "Sorry."

"It's alright." Gene signed the last form with a flourish and gathered up the papers. "I'm a married man, Tyler. I'm used to it." He looked up. "Although, it's not even that bad with the missus. You should meet the missus' missus. That's a whole 'nother story."

Gene got up to file away the forms in his locker, ignoring Sam whose eyes had widened at the Guv's last statement. Sam opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. He raised the glass and drank some more scotch; then said, "Gene, I -"

"Look, Sam -"

They both broke off as they realized they'd spoken on top of each other. Their eyes met, and Gene gestured for Sam to go on. Sam licked his lips. "Gene, I was thinking, maybe we could go somewhere. To, uh, celebrate, y'know?"

"What'd you have in mind?"

"I don't know. We could get something to eat? Or we could go to the pub, if you prefer, the _Arms_, or somewhere else -"

Gene pursed his lips. "I think I have a better idea." He stepped in closer, and Sam swallowed nervously.

"Oh yeah?"

Gene nodded and came even closer, taking the tumbler from Sam's unresisting fingers and putting it down on the desk. "Why don't we," Gene began, his face mere inches from Sam's, "go back to your place, and I'll shag your brains out and then suck you off so hard you'll snort them right back up your nose?"

Sam's breath hitched, and he felt his blood rushing down towards his groin so quickly it left him feeling dizzy. "Uh," he said. "Yeah. Um. I'd like that."

Gene drew back, and suddenly, Sam could breathe again. "Marvellous!" Gene picked up his coat and set off towards the office door. "You coming?"

"Almost," Sam muttered and swallowed, feeling something click in his throat. He quickly hopped off the desk and followed Gene out the door towards the car.

Now if only his coat had been long enough to cover the bulge in his pants.


End file.
